We spent Thanksgiving with my realtor, which is only slightly less depressing than spending it with no one. But I like my realtor. She's kind of nuts.

I mean, she's got penisespenipenis'thank god at least I don't know what the plural for penis is all over her house, and two of her dogs have been dead for at least 3 months, and yet they keep on walking around. It's like hanging with half of the Rolling Stones at her place. The third dog is young, virile, a little fat, and no friend to the small children.

She told me as much. Her husband told me as much. The dog told me as much. My husband told me as much. My 4 year old told me as much. And still, I insisted they become friends. The Yorkie and the toddler should be friends, right? And so I showed her how to give him treats and I showed her how to offer her hand for a sniff and I showed her how to scratch him right *there* under his chin where no dog can resist being all loved up and he showed all of us how sharp his little teeth are. Also, what the insides of my kid's lip look like.

So I spent Thanksgiving in the ER with my realtor who was pretty sure I was going to sue her pants off for something that was my fault. My husband spent Thanksgiving at her house with her husband who was sure we were going to sue his pants of for something that was completely my fault. My daughter got a needle the size of one of those penile ornaments straight in her face for something that was completely and in every way my fault. And I got re-introduced to the US Healthcare system as a non-card carrying member.

The cost for this asshatery? A low low $311.99. A bargain, really, for ruining a strangers holiday and scarring my child's face for life.

I'll admit that I was a little peeved at the $500 bill they handed me, and only slightly relieved when they cut it in half since I paid up front. $250 for 20 minutes and 2 stitches? That's a damn steep salary. But then I looked in the mirror and remembered all those cuts and colors that ran me exactly the same, back in the day when I gave a rat's ass, and I figured that, if I'm going to pay a someone who went to night school that kind of money to make dead cells growing out of my head look decent, I can't really argue with paying someone who spent 10 years in university the same to save my child from having to wear a Frankensteinish scar in the center of her face for the rest of her life.

Also, 20 minutes. TWENTY MINUTES. My husband showed up at a Canadian ER the day before we moved with more of the flesh on his forearm than is decent to discuss in public no longer attached to his forearm and enough blood spewing out of that hole to fill a blood bank, or all those Twilight freaks, and he walked out after four hours without so much as being acknowledged. And now he has a very sexy scar all the way up his arm, and a nice reminder that caveman mechanics and Ikea kids beds and national health care Do. Not. Mix.

The $60 the charged me at the pharmacy for Amoxicillin is an entirely different story. I kind of wanted to kill America at that point. Or at least fuck it in the eye.

But, as they say, all's well that ends well. At fucking late o'clock, we sat around my realtor's dining room table and all gave thanks for something. The kids were thankful for the pool in her backyard, she and her husband for the company, me for barely having permanently scarred my child on any level, and my husband? He was thankful to be sitting in a room eating turkey with a mannequin wearing black lace panties and miniature Santa hats as pasties over her nips.